Relapse
by Symphony Solider
Summary: He wanted her to stay. But someone else needed her to go. So, he did what he had to, because he wasn't one to lose.
1. Progress

Relapse

* * *

_Chapter One: Progress_

* * *

It was the fifth day of the third week when she walks back through his door. Their door. The door. The adjectives are quite useless here. He finds the important fact to be that on a perfectly pleasant day in late spring she came back without notion that anything happened.

But something did happen. He wasn't going to be the one to bring up or delve into the subject much.

She speaks first. "It's been a while."

He looks up from his bookshelf, in which he is currently rearranging for the fourth time today. Alphabetical by publisher. He's become awfully bored in her absence. "Two weeks, five days, ten hours, eleven minutes." He looks down at his watch. "Ten minutes, actually. Watch runs fast." She nods, wrapping her arms around herself. He continues, acting oblivious. "What took you so long, Watson?"

She ignores his lack of compassion a little too easy.

"You didn't visit, not once." She moves to the kitchen in search for something. He informs her that her tea is now kept in the microwave he never uses. She doesn't seem effected. "You didn't write or call. Nothing—why?"

He has two copies of _To Kill A Mockingbird_. The one already placed on the shelf is his. The one in his hand is hers. He keeps his eyes on the paperback as he says, "I didn't see need."

"Liar."

He balances the book he's holding, letting it flow through his hands as if it was randomly changing weight. He's not particularly fond of her choice word. He puts her _To Kill A Mocking Bird _next to his.

"Watson, it was my fault and I take full responsibility. I should have protected you better, but heroin has this way to make you—"

"Forget who your friends are?"

He taps his chin thoughtfully. Without even looking, he slides Moby Dick onto the bookshelf. "Precisely."

"You're impossible, you know that, right?" She leaves her tea and climbs the stairs with the same aggravation she would have had before her two week, five day, ten hour, and ten minute absence.

He doesn't smile at the normality of the situation. He's not sure he likes the security back.

He had just gotten to terms with her absence. He picked up his own dry cleaning, he'd grown accustomed to the smell of his apartment without her perfume, he could even deduce and solve crimes fine without her.

He may be better with her, but without her he's still great. Pondering on these little things do not make him feel better. Wasting his time thinking about what is and what could have been does not interest him currently.

Once he's sure she's gone totally upstairs, Sherlock turns his attention to the corner of the room where a hundred or so half written letters, a few dozen deflated balloons, four vases of now dead flowers, and other trinkets lay haphazardly.

All addressed to her, all never sent by him.

He throws them all away.

* * *

He smiles.

It's the fifteenth hour of the first day she came back when she fumbles down the stairs.

He had hoped that his throwing of citrus fruits at balloons pinned to the wall would coax her to come downstairs.

"You're really a jackass, you know?"

"Still colorful with the language, I see."

"I'm angry. People get angry, Sherlock." Her hands move to rest on her hips as if to prove some sort of point. If the point is as sharp as her tone, and if her tone had the ability to wound, she'd have skinned him alive. He bites his lip for a moment.

The room stays silent for a moment. He grabs one of the fruits and throws it, effectively popping a balloon and causing her to jump. "Hm."

"Hm? That's all you've got?"

He pauses. "Fine." Grabbing the basket of now exactly eighteen citrus fruits, he turns on his heel and gives the basket to her. The detective gestures to the wall of balloons. "Have at it."

"What?"

"You're angry now; you'll feel better after you throw the fruit." He takes a few steps back and gestures again for her to proceed.

She grabs an orange and throws it as hard as possible.

She hits her target. He starts to bleed.

"You're right, I do feel better."

His smile fades.

* * *

They enter the small apartment of their newest victim on the eighth hour of the second day. He is happy, she is not.

"I can't believe you jumped out of a moving taxi," she says under her breath.

"I can't believe it took you so long to follow me, my dear Watson."

"You _must_ be kidding."

He takes a lick of his ice cream cone. "I saw the ice cream parlor and I had a desire for it, so I took action."

"You could have died."

"Oh, but I didn't, Watson. You must loosen up a bit, yes? Plus, you seem to be enjoying your own ice cream just fine."

She brings the cone to her mouth and mumbles something he can't quite decipher, but her frown is now a smile and he assumes that's good enough.

"Holmes, what are you doing?"

He ignores Bell's question and discards his shirt, throwing it at Watson who in turn tosses it in the trash. "I can't recognize what happened unless I'm in the victim's shoes, or more precisely, his clothes." Honestly, that was a load of bullshit. He hadn't been to the cleaners in a few days and very muchly enjoys the selection of clothing the victim had. No reason why this couldn't expedite his thought process, though.

"Can he do that?" Watson asks. "He can't do that."

Sherlock takes one of the shirts from the victim's closet, as well as a pair of slacks. "Obsessive compulsive disorder," he starts, slipping on the v-neck undershirt, then the crisp white button up.

"He has OCD," bell starts, "So what?"

"Very severe—every shirt and pant, every drawer and sock—it's all the same. Very interesting. And his profession was—"

"Accountant, worked out of home." She answers his question but does not look at him.

It's almost impressive.

He switches his pants for the victim's slacks. "I was referring to his side job."

Bell rolls his eyes. "Side job? There's no side job, Holmes."

"His clothes are set up in such a way that would suggest he suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder—er, OCD, as it is—to the naked eye. To an eye that is more than bare, it is seen that they're all bought from different stores. Interesting, that a man who cannot break habit finds himself going to different stores, yes?" He makes his way around the body and gives it another look.

"Maybe he was a fashion forward guy with OCD," Bell suggests. Sherlock goes to answer, but stops. Rubbing his fingers against the object in the victim's pant pocket, he crosses the room, feeling up the walls. "Should I ask what the hell you're doing, or are you going to tell me?"

"Detective Bell, I assure you that my deductive methods are purely sane, as you can see," he drops to the floor suddenly, inspecting the area under the bed, "I am simply looking for something." He goes back to the closet and moves all articles to the right.

"What are you doing in the poor man's closet?" Sherlock pulls out the key and wiggles it into the keyhole. "You're crazy, you know that, Holmes?"

The consultant straightens the blazer collar on himself. "I may be. But I believe this—" he puts his hand on a handle and pulls on it harshly, revealing a hidden room "—is enough to prove Mr. Giovack is interested in much more than fashion and numbers."

"Damn."

The meth lab in front of them was small but extensive. Sherlock closes his eyes.

"Ah, it's good to see you, my old friend."

* * *

The meth lab is in his head. He's not sure why. He just thinks about it over and over like a sickening lucid dream from hell. He supposes that it's in relation to his recent relapse.

He'd never had much of a taste for meth in the first place.

"What are you doing?"

He doesn't turn to look at her, instead he throws another dart at the bulletin board. It misses the picture of a Mr. Whinfok by an inch.

"I'm deducing."

"You're playing a child's game."

"Gregor Whinfok looks suspicious."

She doesn't move closer to him. He wishes she would. "Yeah, having a delusional man throw darts at your head does that to a person."

"There's a bigger story here, Watson."

"Have you read it yet?"

He throws another dart. "I'm not quite sure it's written in my language."

He can hear her musing for a moment before she gains proximity. She grabs a dart from him and pegs Gregor square in the face.

"Get a translator, then." She walks away, quick on her feet, up the stairs.

The meth lab leaves his head and is instead replaced with thoughts of her.

Damned Watson.

* * *

The sofa has been his best friend during the past month.

When she had been gone at first, they had assured him she wouldn't come back. Out of anger and false belief, he foolishly turned her room into a thinking room. The room holds remnants of his thoughts during that time.

The room is messy. Very messy.

She refuses to clean it. She wants him to clean up his own messes now. He tries to bargain with her, but she stands firm. He swears he'll clean it, but honestly, he knows he won't get around to it, because honestly, he'd rather dig his eyes out with a fork.

She sleeps in his room now.

Thus, the sofa is his new lover.

* * *

"Watson." Nothing. "Waatsoon." Still, nothing. He holds one of the leftover balloons from his citrus fruit experiment over her head. He lets the needle in his hand connect with the rubber flesh of the air filled sac. When she is discourteously pulled from her sleep he gives her an unamused look. "You really mustn't be such a heavy sleeper."

"God damn it, Sherlock! What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing in particular is wrong with me, Watson. However, that is beside the point-"

She rolls over and pulls the covers over her head. "You're crazy."

"This is not a child's game!" She mumbles from under the blankets.

Sherlock is not amused.

"We really mustn't waste any more time. I've hit a breakthrough on the Peter Giovack case, and I think you'd like to see what I've found."

"Stop lying to me, what do you really want?"

He's not sure when she got to know him so well. He doesn't particularly like it. "That wasn't a lie. Simply a half truth."

This catches her attention. She sits up in bed and the blankets fall from her body in a way he can see the deep neckline if her tank-top and the absence of her bra strap. He sincerely hopes she's wearing some sort of pant, or the encounter will be much more awkward.

"You're such a pervert, you know?" She groans. "Of course I'm wearing 'some sort of pant'."

He bites the inside of his cheek. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. He rarely makes these mistakes.

She grabs his wrist and uses it to hoist herself off the bed recklessly. "Now show me this half truth."

She screams very loudly when she finds the prime suspect of the Peter Giovack case lying unconscious on the floor of their living room.

* * *

"Please tell me we're telling the police about this."

"You're a detective, you tell me."

"Yeah, stupid question, sorry. I almost forget you don't play by the rules." He watches her still halfway dressed form pace around the unconscious body of Gregor Whinfok tied up to a chair in the kitchen. "What happened again?"

"I told you, Watson; I was looking into him late into the night when I heard someone enter through the back. Naturally, I hid with my light saber in hand-"

"Naturally."

"-and when he walked past me I hit him with the handle of my Star Wars toy."

"I thought you said it was more than a toy."

He frowns. "I said it was more than a silly toy, Watson. You called it a silly toy the first time i brought it up. It's not silly. Look at what it did to this man; could a silly toy do that?"

"Probably."

"Imma kill you both, you know that?! Untie me!" Sherlock keeps his eyes locked on Watson as he hits Gregor with the light saber again, effectively shutting him up.

"Perhaps we should call the police," he starts before pointing at the toy in hand and adding, "_not silly_."

* * *

"This isn't funny, Sherlock!" He opens his mouth to speak. She shushes him. "I don't want to hear it! Where is it?"

She lifts the couch cushions and throws them to the side; she searches in the cabinets and inspects the bookshelf. "What are you doing to my books, Watson?"

"There's probably a trippy book that, when pulled, opens up a secret passage."

"Do you not loathe your own paranoia?"

She turns to him. "I know you hid it!"

"It's not nice to point." He taps his chin thoughtfully before connecting his clenched fists to his side. "It's quite chilly though, care to fetch me a coat?"

"I'm not your servant."

"But you are my pathetically paranoid domestic companion."

"_Sober companion_," she corrects.

"You know that's false information."

"Where did you hide Gregor's body?!" She throws herself back at the bookshelf and starts removing every book and tossing them on the floor.

"What motive would I have to hide a body of a living man?"

She pauses for a moment before a sour face taints her features. "You killed him?"

"Bloody hell, I didn't do anything to Gregor Whinfok."

"Bloody hell," she muses. She continues throwing books on the floor, but softer this time around. "That's a new one."

He blinks. "Life's full of surprises."

"Are you going to tell me where you hid the body?" When he doesn't answer she frowns. "Again, this isn't funny!" She storms upstairs, most likely to scheme a new plan.

He brings the tea mug to his lips and smiles.

_He_ thinks it's funny.

* * *

It's been eight days, five hours and twelve minutes since she last spoke to him. He isn't stupid. He knows he's being ignored.

It would be less annoying if she totally cut him off: no gestures, walking out of rooms when he enters, just bitter coldness.

Then maybe he would be able to fucking sleep at night.

But, in reality, she stays in the room when he enters and offers him a weak smile. She makes herbal tea and, if he looks away long enough, he'll find tea but no Watson for him. Just the day before he was working on something and was oblivious to her, and, needing his attention, she placed her cold hand over his writing one.

It got his attention, alright.

It puzzles him to no end. At first she was Watson, but she has become this game without rules that she's expecting him to play. He doesn't even know if he's a player.

All he knows is that her not talking to him is really causing him to lose sleep, and sanity for that matter, and she seems to have no response to the effects she's causing.

Living with him for six months must have taught her that if she desires to truly get under his skin, challenging him intellectually is more bothersome than some child's silent treatment game. And so here she is, playing a complex game with too many layers for him to currently count.

It's driving him mad.

He actually isn't sure what her problem is. Their awkward domestic relationship suddenly becoming a problem unsettles him to no end.

He turns the television on and lets the static replace his thoughts.

Those demons are for tomorrow.

* * *

Tomorrow wasn't the most pleasant tomorrow he'd had. It starts at 3AM on the ninth day she'd been ignoring him.

The sofa seems extra lumpy because his heart is extra heavy, although he doesn't know why. Naturally, he deduces.

He starts by pacing. He paces and paces before deciding tea will expedite his thinking. Drinking his tea, he thinks some more.

He thinks until he finds himself at her door. His door, really. He knocks on it loudly.

To his surprise, she opens it in under a heartbeat. His heart is beating quite rapidly.

She does not speak, instead asking with her eyes and body language what he wants.

"I don't like that you're ignoring me." She shrugs. "I don't like that you're ignoring me, and I don't like that you called me a liar. When you threw the citrus fruit at me I did not enjoy it, and you throwing my shirt away in the crime scene was quite irritating." His fists clench. She still has no words. "I don't like sleeping on the sofa, I don't enjoy how you don't respect me much anymore, and it's really bothersome how you refuse to trust me.

But what is bitterly unbearable is that all of these things I don't like, and yet I let you go on with it without change. You make me better, Watson, but believe me in that I was doing damn well without you, too."

Her first words to him were, "I believe you."

She shuts the door in his face. He turns on his heel, satisfied with himself.

One month, two days, six hours and thirty-two minutes after she came back they've finally made progress. Definite progress.

* * *

Prologue + Ch. 1. Love JoanLock but this is more angsty because, well, I love angst. Sorry bbys D:

I guess this is more of a collection of drabbles that are woven into a story. Oops.

My bby Sherlock kinda took over and decided to be a dick this chapter, sorry :$

**I could really use a beta.**

Drop a review if you could find the time :) I love both support and (constructive) criticism, so have at it :3

_Protinus te videre!_


	2. Deduce

**WARNING: CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FROM THE SEASON FINALE.**

* * *

**6:35 pm the first day.**

Sherlock doesn't know.

He realizes there's a time lapse. True, he knows what landed Watson in the hospital those two weeks, five days, ten hours, and ten minutes, but he didn't visit her. He doesn't know how she was during that time. He doesn't know who she saw or what they said to her. He doesn't know and she doesn't tell him.

Their relationship wasn't exactly based on raw trust, usually only blind faith on her part. But whoever she met and whatever they said to her during that time made it very difficult for him to read her.

It bothers him.

It honestly isn't his business, he rationalizes. It isn't his business and he should respect her privacy.

He says this to himself as he shuffles through the stack of papers on her desk.

He sent her away for Thai food, knowing the closest take out was a good fifteen minutes away by cab, and never failed to take as long as possible to prepare the food. He also knows she loves the Thai food of the particular restaurant he sent her to, and although his motives were ulterior, he knows she enjoys her trips there. That buys him an hour to look through her things.

Granted it really is his room, so it is his right.

He falters at the fact that he has twenty minutes left and had found nothing. Aggravated, he falls into her bed. His bed. The bed.

For a moment he considers his next move.

He hears a ping. Standing he moves to the laptop. Reading what has popped up, his face lightens up.

_"Aha."_

* * *

**7:16 **

"So you are..?"

_Blunt or untruthful?_ The question has point five seconds of consideration before he rests his ankle on his other knee.

"Sherlock."

"Blunt."

"Thank you."

The psychiatrist readjusts her glasses. "Sherlock in the flesh and blood. I've heard only the worst."

He shrugs. "Naturally."

"I cannot talk to you about her affairs before-"

Sherlock's eyes dart around the room for a distraction. He doesn't really want to talk about the incident or how he messed up. He only wants to know what Watson did in those days he didn't see her. "I don't care about that, honestly. Did you see her? Watson?"

"Did _you_?"

"Why aren't you answering my question?"

"Why are you avoiding mine?"

He crossed then uncrosses his legs. "I don't want to play your silly doctoral games. I'm not sick."

"Neither was she."

"She needs someone to talk to, is all."

"Because you weren't there?" the doctor challenges. "She was very lost and you-"

"Wait, _was_?"

The doctor makes a face Sherlock can't quite decipher before saying, "Obviously I'm not her psychiatrist anymore."

His fists clench. "I see."

"Mr. Holmes?"

"This was a waste of my time."

When he turns to leave, she calls his name. For some reason it seems sympathetic. Sherlock doesn't like that.

She puts her hand out towards him, holding a small business card. "Wait, take my card."

"I don't want that." She continues to hold out the card to him, urging him to take it with her eyes. He snatches the card from her and stuffs it in his pocket.

"In case you need someone," she says.

"I'm not sick," he replies.

* * *

**3:26 am the second day.**

Watson wakes up with a start. He supposes this is his fault, since her surprise in waking is from the fact he is in bed with her.

Granted, it is _his_ bed in _his_ room in _his_ home.

She doesn't see it the same way.

"Sherlock?! What the f-"

He moves the arm that was previously supporting his head, sitting up from his lying-down position on the mattress. He straightens his blazer and greets her with a smile.

"Up and at 'em! Chip chop chip, we've got to go."

"Chip chop chip? There's no way that's not made up."

"I'm British, I'm sure I know my homeland's expressions," he lies. "Now, please, we must go. Another victim awaits!"

She pulls the pillow over her head and mumbles, "Not this again."

"I've already wasted almost half an hour waiting for you to arise, since all modes of waking you were ineffectual. Although that's probably from the sleeping pills I found hidden under your pillow—"

"I've had trouble sleeping since the hospital!" She pauses a moment. "Wait, you were watching me sleep?"

He shrugs. "Watching, observing, deducing, all the same, correct?"

"You're insane."

"Watson, we haven't got time for this. Captain Gregson demands our attention-"

"At 3 in the morning?"

"Three twenty eight to be exact, now-"

"Sherlock, I'm tired. Can we please just go back to bed?"

She doesn't seem to enjoy being thrown sloppily over his shoulder and carried downstairs.

* * *

**4:12 am **

Sherlock swipes his phone out and answers it when it rings. "Captain?"

"Holmes, where are you?"

"There was a bit of a delay."

"Delay?"

"Yes, delay. I've learned it's not wise to use the phrase 'bite me' jokingly when dealing with an angry woman. They take it seriously."

Watson curses at him from his right.

Babshshsbdndkdmdmdmdmfkf

**4:27 am**

Joan makes a face at the man below her. "What's this?"

"It's obviously a dead body." Sherlock looks up at the Captain. "Overdose, correct?"

"Yeah. Cocaine."

"Third body this week, what a shame," a detective whom Sherlock doesn't know comments. "Think they're connected?"

Holmes looks up at the captain, the unidentified detective's comment catching his attention. "Third?"

"Robertson meant second, _didn't you, Robertson_?"

"No, sir. Third. Remember the one at the dumpster this morning?"

Gregson slaps his forehead and Sherlock now understands Gregson's previous tone. He didn't want him to know.

He is getting tired of not knowing things.

Sherlock grasps the man—Robertson—by the shoulders. In a sharp, loud voice he says, "Who was the victim?"

Watson frowns. "Sherlock."

"Um, Mallory Grace, mister."

"Mallory Grace? Interesting. Why do you think her death has anything to do with the others?"

"_Sherlock_! You're hurting him!"

"She died a bloody death but we found something in her bloodstream that connects her to the other victims, sir."

"What? What was in her bloodstream?"

"Sherlock!"

"Drugs."

"Drugs?"

"Please let go of me, mister. Your hold is awfully tight."

"What was the bloody drug?"

"God damn, Sherlock! Let him go!"

"Heroin, sir. Heroin was in her blood."

* * *

**5:45 am**

"Cap'n, I'm just suggesting that since I'm on the case I should know about all aspects about it, previous addiction or no."

"We just don't need to be held responsible for anyone shooting up, Holmes. It was the best decision at the time!"

"Best decision? Oh, and it was the best decision for me to "shoot up"—as you so elegantly put it—and almost get Watson killed, eh?"

"Sherlock!" he makes a gesture at Watson, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Cap'n!"

"That's it! You're off the case until I say otherwise, you hear? Go home!"

"You're making a mistake."

Sherlock slams the door behind him.

**5:51 am.**

* * *

"I can't believe you jumped into that dumpster. You smell horrendous."

He pulls her in for a side hug, a good, long, tight one to make sure not only the smell stays on her, but also some of the odd-tasting sticky stuff on his right side.

Despite herself, she laughs, pushing him away playfully. "Gross! Get off me."

He pulls a fake pout. "You don't want to hug me?"

"I want you to take a shower," she says. "Ooh, and I want pizza."

Sherlock shrugs and slides onto the kitchen countertop, snatching an apple from the fruit basket and taking a bite. "Apples are better for you."

Before she can respond, her phone buzzes and she looks down at it. She stops taking of her gloves before scrambling to put her hat back on.

"Whatever are you doing my dear Watson?"

"I-I, um, have to go."

"Go? We just come back from a long day of deducing without the police and you have to go _again_?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. I—it's an emergency. Give me an hour?"

Sherlock looks at the clock as she gathers her coat and purse and shuffles out the door.

**5:17 pm** on the dot.

* * *

She walks in at **6:39 pm.**

"You're late," Sherlock deadpans. He's lying upside down on the staircase, showered and clad in pajamas.

"Late?"

"You said to give you an hour. You left at one time, and an hour from that time you hadn't returned."

"Were you there, staring at the door, the whole time?"

"I'd already showered and made a breakthrough. There was nothing else to do."

"I see."

"Watson! You're getting off topic; where were you?"

She slides off her jacket slowly, looking thoroughly confused. "Is this your way of being concerned, because it's kind of freaking me out. Endearing, but creepy."

"This is bigger than just you, Watson, I believe I found the key to the case."

"Oh, really? Do you plan to share?"

"Can we eat the pizza first? It's gone cold while you've been gone."

* * *

**6:46 p.m.**

"So you think Moriarty is luring you in to play her game?"

Sherlock stands then sits then stands again, moving towards the refrigerator. Grabbing a milk carton, he brings it back to Watson and sits himself on the table itself.

"Don't you think that it's a bit peculiar Moriarty expects you to keep being her... her puppet? Didn't she get what she wanted?"

Holmes shoots her a sideways look of annoyance. "Watson, I don't think you see it." He starts to pour himself a glass of milk. "She doesn't want me to _play_ the game, she wants me to _be_ the game."

She takes a bite of her pizza. "So, why do you think Moriarty wants to play you like a game of chess?"

He doesn't mention his encounter with Irene one month before her incident. He just looks past her at the television which is buzzing on about nonsense. Sherlock almost answers, but hears the news make an interesting announcement.

_"Police arrive on the scene. We see a John Doe, about 40 years old, dead. Police says there's no sign of struggle, major injury or over dosage. The only marks on his body are on his left wrist where someone printed the words "devil's advocate." Whoever killed this man did it peacefully, maybe even at the hand of God."_

Sherlock scoffs. "Hand of God. I bet Moriarty is eating that right up."

"Okay, so what does Moriarty want from you? Last time we were dealing with her you said that she didn't want to hurt you."

"Hurt me? She doesn't want to hurt me." _She wants to hurt you_. "She just wants my attention—the one man audience to her extravaganza."

"But why?"

_She wants me to play assassin for her._ "I don't know."

* * *

**11:35 pm. the third day **

He doesn't remember how the fight started. He thinks it was about Irene. It was his favorite subject when she didn't want to talk about it and her favorite topic when he didn't want to answer her questions. He thinks today they're both very angry and someone mentions his deceased love's name and it all blows up.

But then again, her not getting his dry cleaning could have triggered it. Or was it his looking through her closet for a reason he can't remember anymore?

He doesn't know.

He does know she's angry. But she's angry, too. Very angry. Livid.

"Sherlock! You're being ridiculous! It's been hard for me since the accident."

"Hard for you? What about _me_?" He steps over the bookshelf that's fallen in the anger.

"I wouldn't know because you refuse to tell me your feelings!"

"I don't need you to deal with my feelings, Watson, at least I can keep mine in check!"

"In check? So this is my fault now? You're the one who put me in danger, you're the one who abandoned me—this is not my fault!"

"We all fight the same demons, Watson!"

"And you always assume yours are wearing scarier masks than mine!" She closes her eyes. "They aren't, okay? The devil doesn't always move the same pawn. Right now his hand's on me."

"Then what in bloody hell do you want me to do? I don't play devil's advocate."

"Sherlock—!"

"Watson." His voice goes stern. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know! Eat an apple, solve a murder, deduce. I don't really care. Just drop it."

And with that, she leaves.

* * *

He hasn't seen her in two days. There was no tea nor sarcastic remarks made. The apartment feels empty again.

* * *

**7:36 am the sixth day.**

He wakes up suddenly. Sherlock opens his eyes and realizes that something's hit him. He touches his face to find something red and... sticky?

"Relax," he hears a voice deadpan, "they're just cherries."

"They?" he mumbles to himself. He sits up and sees cherries all around him—splattered or still whole on the floor, walls and bedside furniture. He'd fallen asleep in her room—really his room—because she hadn't been around for three days. Plus, he hates that stupid sofa.

He looks around the room once more at all the cherry stains. His eyes drift to her.

Watson shrugs. "It took me a few tries." She pops a cherry in her mouth.

"I thought you were angry at me."

"I am."

"Then why are you here?"

She shoves a second cherry in her mouth before sliding off of his—no, her desk. She moves towards the door.

Like some kind of lost puppy, he follows. "Watson, this is not a game." They begin to pad down the stairs.

"I'm not playing games with you, Sherlock."—the way she says his name is troubling—"Someone else is."

She hands him a note addressed to him, already opened. In it are four pictures. He examines them and realizes there is one from each crime scene.

Watson recites the contents of the attached letter, "Care to play a part in my big production?"

Sherlock looks up at her and finishes the note, "Moriarty."

* * *

_[ Flashback ]_

**9:18. One month before accident. **

_Watson glides down the stairs, a happy expression playing on her lips. "Guess what I did."_

_"You found a good recipe for homemade scones?"_

_"No."_

_"You got the dry cleaning?"_

_"No."_

_"I'm sorry then, I just don't care."_

_She rolls her eyes but her smile doesn't lessen. If anything, it grows larger. "I did the most amazing thing today." _

_"What is it, Watson, can't you tell I'm busy?"_

_"Sherlock," she says, "You're painting a picture of Clyde like a kindergartener." _

_He looks at his canvas. "It's abstract."_

_She laughs. "It's bad."_

_"If I keep up with your antics will you leave me and my masterpiece alone?" She starts to scoff but tries to hide it. She offers a smile in replacement and nods. He sighs. "What did you do, Watson?"_

_"I got you the best gift in the world."_

_"Did you?" He turns back to Clyde and his abstract art. "If it's not a scone recipe then I don't think I'll like it."_

_"I think you will."_

_He tries to ignore her because if he pays her too much mind he'll break his façade and laugh at her and her over-excitement. And he can't have that. She'll think he cares about her more than he'll let himself._

_He tries to stay monotone. "What is it, Watson. I really am busy."_

_She slides the box onto the table and he eyes it, but does not pick it up. "Well, aren't you going to open it?"_

_He sighs and looks at it again. It can't hurt, he reasons with himself. Opening the box, something peculiar is revealed. He closes the box and pushes it back at her. "I don't smoke."_

_"Look at it again, stupid."_

_Sherlock huffs at her comment but none-the-less opens the box, lest she call him another degrading name. _

_The pipe is magnificent and it was sophisticated. With wood structure and a worn brass mouthpiece, it's not bad, not at all. But he won't admit that._

_"It's not for you to smoke. It's supposed to be memorabilia. A little birdie told me tobacco's what got you started. Plus, blow into it."_

_"What?"_

_"Just do it."_

_He complied, and the darnedest thing happens. Bubbles burst out of the pipe hole and cascade around the pipe and his hand. Sherlock can't help but smile in joy._

_Watson smiles broadly at this, handing him a bottle of bubble soap. "Not too shabby for a first gift, eh?"_

_He rolls his eyes and sets the gift down. Sure, he'd play with it later, but he didn't want to give her the satisfaction. "Very childish."_

_A ring at the doorbell. She walks towards the door and says, "And painting your pet isn't?"_

_"Painting your snack isn't."_

_She groans as she opens the door. "Sherlock!"_

_"Yes, I know, friends not food." He holds back a smile. "I was only teasing, my dear Watson. You must lighten up."_

_"Mm, sure." Her hands rake through the mail the carrier gives her at the door. "Bill, bill, bill, shitty advertisement, bill, oh!" She pulls a letter. "This is for you."_

_"Throw it out, probably some half minded criminal wanting attention." _

_"I dunno, pretty good quality letter, fancy printing, too. Looks important." She slides the letter to him, insisting he at least look at it, before padding up the stairs to shower._

_He glances from his painting to the letter and frowns. The handwriting on the letter looks familliar. On what occasion had he seen it last? He uses his fingers to pry the envelope open and pull the letter out. _

_There is a photograph and a note._

_The photo is of Watson in the home. His home._

_Their home._

_There's an M printed on her face in a distinct red sharpie._

_The letter is simple: "_If you don't comply, she's next_."_

* * *

**Eep!** This took a long time /).(\ *hides* Sorry guys! Next one shouldn't be too long! Questions? Comments? Suggestions? Concerns? Drop a review and tell me! 15 reviews for the first chapter was amazing—thanks guys!

I know you still have questions but that's what this story is all about, sillies! You'll learn tiny bits each chapter :3 I know all you want is a bit of JoanLock fluff but man there is just no time for that quite yet! Maybe in a few chapters….. ;)

Protinus te videre!


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